Wish You Were Here
by Valhalla
Summary: *CHANGES MADE TO CHAPTER 3!* please r/r! DOYLE FIC! Now that I have your attention, here's the deal: since Cordelia's ascended, someone has to take her place ... and there's a certain Irishman ... also w/ Whistler & Harry
1. Default Chapter

SUMMARY: So now that's Cordy's "ascended", someone's gotta take her place back on Earth. Seems that there's a certain Irishman who's up for the job .. Doyle returns! (Happy fun time!)  
  
'SHIPS: Total Doyle/Cordy. I LOATHED the entire A/C romance storyline. Probably a little F/G thrown in for good measure.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Don't sue me, blah, blah, blah . this is my first fanfic, so I'm still getting use to the style. I apologize for the formatting, I'm still trying to figure out how the tell to fix it. Oh, and the song's 'I Miss You', by Incubus.  
  
To see you when I wake up, is a gift I didn't think could be real To know that you feel the same, as I do, is a Three-fold utopian dream You do something to me That I can't explain So would I be out of line, If I said I miss you. I see your picture, I smell your skin on, the empty pillow next to mine You have only been gone ten days, but already I am wasting away I know I'll see you again Whether far or soon But I need you to know, that I care And I miss you ...  
  
******************  
  
The pub was nearly deserted.  
  
The establishment's few occupants lounged on high wooden stools, defensively hunched over the bar, nursing pints of ale and considering the mysteries of life, their next meal, why that little vixen named Fate had lead them here ...  
  
A lulling Irish melody filled the air, the soft notes of the harp slicing through the thick silence. The place was inviting, homey ... the roaring fire flickered merrily, its' light giving the polished wooden interior a soft glow, delicious smells wafted from the back kitchen, carrying scents of baking bread and childhood memories, the plush chairs around the hearth welcomed visitors weary with travel or strife, seeming to suggest that this place meant rest, this place meant peace.  
  
All the guests seemed comfortably settled, at ease, pouring over books, napping lightly in those comfy chairs, enjoying their respective brews. Each face was blessed with a calm, contented smile, each countenance bathed in the same happy glow. The solitary figures were cleansed of all their earthly worries and troubles; they simply existed. Not to fight or vanquish or love or hurt, they just were. Their stories were finished, their chapters brought to a close; they were truly alive only in the memories of others, as fanciful and insubstantial as specters.  
  
And to each, this was their little piece of heaven.  
  
These blissful sojourners hardly noticed the entrance of the girl. So many people were joining them, stopping for a visit, searching for a loved one, that the appearance of this radiant young woman, resplendent in her flowing white dress, barely caused a ripple.  
  
One man, reclining next to the fireplace, did look up. He tipped back his brown fedora, a smug, satisfied smile stretching across ruddy features. He knew she'd make her way here eventually. His gaze strayed to a young, raven- haired man slouched over his beer at the bar.  
  
Whistler shook his head knowingly, a small grin still playing on his lips. Words flitted through his mind, words uttered by another, a whispered, rolling Irish lilt: "Too bad we'll never know ..."  
  
He glanced from the stunning woman in white to the dark-haired brooder. "Maybe you now you will," the demon murmured gently, easing out of his chair and strolling to the darker confines of the bar.  
  
Cordelia Chase, ex-May Queen, former private investigator and half- demon, paused expectantly at the building's entrance. She knew this was his "spiritual resting place" or whatever Skip had called it; his ideal setting to spend the rest of eternity. And, big duh, it was a bar.  
  
"I didn't know alcoholism could extend into the afterlife," Cordelia muttered to herself as she strode through the establishment. Still, it warmed her to think that some of Doyle's human, earthly habits had remained with him. That maybe he was still just as flawed and vulnerable and beautiful as before. God, he'd spent almost three years in, well ... heaven; he was probably all glowy and stuff. Wings? Halo? Yeah right. Just because Doyle was The Promised One, all noble and self-sacrifice-y, didn't mean he'd gone Touched By An Angel. He was probably the same old-  
  
"Doyle."  
  
Clear blue eyes met her glimmering brown ones. Rumpled hair and sleepy smile, battered leather jacket, familiar scent of whiskey, cigarettes and pine trees ... His strong Welsh features lit up with shock, then disbelief, then elation. One hand (trembling ever so slightly) traveled from the bar counter to Cordelia's face.  
  
Doyle's thumb traced the strong line of her jaw, explored the delicate curve of her cheekbone. The other hand grasped her shoulder cautiously, experimentally, as if a touch too firm would make her evaporate. And still, he said nothing, simply blinked furiously, a dumbfounded smile on his lips.  
  
He's just the same, Cordelia mused, her thoughts a whirlwind. "He's just the same, and he smells the same and he's so warm-"  
  
Then Doyle's embrace engulfed her and all Cordelia knew was that he was alive (ALIVE!). And all Doyle could comprehend was that the void which had been chilling his soul was warmed and she was safe in his arms.  
  
"Princess," he murmured brokenly, blue eyes bright with tears. "I've been waitin' for yea." 


	2. Chapter Two

DISCLAIMER: So if you skipped over the first chapter, Doyle's still dead, but now Cordy's with him. Let the wackiness ensue! Oh, and I haven't watched 'Angel' since the season started, so disregard all those happenings ... I still don't own this characters, demi-god Joss does, I am a poverty- stricken student, so don't sue me ... if for some reason you want to archive this silly piece of fluff, just ask. One more thing, this time the song's 'Beach Music' by the Watchmen. Enjoy!  
  
One or two more times inside my head, and what's it stand for Racing time, the temporary far away from your door Once in a while, I find I run one more mile  
  
Though I know you're not my idea Feel I'm kind of stuck with you What's behind the lines, the lines  
  
Caught in the center, your hollow entertainer And I wonder, whatever do I see in you? Yeah, but I see it in you  
  
Autumn breaks, your boyfriend wakes, leaves fast with your daughter I've seen you time and time again, pictures of them And tell me about your royalty and (ice land)  
  
You waltzed right in the center and just sat You threw our lives upon our ears like that I can't believe you died  
  
Caught in the center, your hollow entertainer And I wonder, whatever do I see in you? Yeah, but I see it in you  
  
(CD) turns, the candle burns, bed-ridden 'cause you have to Sleeping all your days away, 'cause waking hours scare you How about a smile be the last thing that I did to you?  
  
Hands off the trigger, 'cause I'm a hollow entertainer Also, I wonder whatever do I see in you? And did you see it in me?  
  
*****************  
  
Time passed.  
  
(An eternity, a heartbeat.)  
  
How much or how little, neither knew and neither cared.  
  
They strolled down the beach, leaving a wake of lazy footprints in the hot, white sand. Doyle admired his surroundings. Perpetual, endless blue, all around ... the clear turquoise of the ocean, the unmarred sapphire of the sky ... lush vegetation dotted the horizon; vibrant flowers, lofty palm trees ... the exotic foliage cast a fragrant scent on the evening air. And before them, nothing but that unending expanse of warm, pale sand.  
  
(We could walk forever.)  
  
Paradise. Heaven.  
  
Cordelia, her flowing, white gowns fluttering in the mild breeze, smiled radiantly and squeezed his hand. The contact stirred that feeling, that bright explosion of anticipation and anxiety, sent it spiraling up through his chest. (Jesus boy, getta grip. You ain't in grade school no more.)  
  
But this wasn't just some trivial preteen crush. This was, well, he thought it could, maybe, still be-  
  
"Doyle." She was peering at him, features half concerned, half amused.  
  
"Yea Princess?"  
  
She regarded him curiously. "You were a million miles away right then. What's up?"  
  
Doyle considered the night sky, then his gaze drifted back to the lovely girl before him. Silky, blond hair (and God, he was still getting use to that colour) framed a flawless, finely-boned face; full lips now played with a beaming smile, deep-set, rich brown eyes so filled with compassion it would make your heart ache.  
  
(How can they ask me to give up this? To give up Heaven?)  
  
"Nothin' darlin'," he announced with false conviction.  
  
Cordy waged a knowing finger at him. "Don't try to look all innocent-puppy- dog-eyes with me, mister. I'm broody-master's best friend; I know all the cutesy looks."  
  
Doyle chuckled. "Angel did have sad-puppy-eyes down to an art, didn't he?"  
  
A flinch. The name ... Angel ... something there. Cordy's delighted grin couldn't mask the sharp hurt in her eyes.  
  
"That's for sure," she conceded, snaking one arm around Doyle's midsection. Like Skip had mentioned to her before, most people chose to improve their spiritual beings. Doyle's burgeoning beer belly of old had disappeared, leaving a flat, well-muscled stomach in its' place.  
  
"Couldn't you of made yourself taller, too?" Cordelia grumbled good- naturedly, ensnaring him in a spontaneous embrace.  
  
Doyle held her close. "Yeah, well, didn't wanna mess wit' perfection too much," he countered teasingly.  
  
She laughed, then seated herself on the sand. Doyle settled next to her, hand still resting comfortably on the small of her back. The tepid ocean water lapped at their feet; a contented silence descended on them.  
  
A few moments passed, then: "What's wrong, really?"  
  
Doyle turned to Cordelia, face solemn. She searched his features, distress growing. A stray piece of hair obscured her exquisite countenance; he brushed it behind her ear with a tender hand.  
  
"I hafta leave."  
  
Cordy started, perplexed. "What are you talking about? Where are you going?" she demanded. "Are you trading in Ye Olde Pub for some art deco martini bar?"  
  
Doyle allowed a smile to escape his somber demeanor. "No Princess ..." The rueful tone returned. "They're sendin' me back."  
  
"Back? Where?" Her entire countenance dropped, deflated. Then a faint whisper. "Oh." But Cordelia Chase was still a force to be reckoned with, this was the eye of the storm; the tempest in her voice rose again. "Why? After all this time, why now? I just-I mean ..."  
  
Doyle tenderly entwined his calloused fingers in her slender ones. "Angel needs a Seer. Damn, he needs all tha help he can get. But ya gotta different path now, Cordy. Tha Powers That Be want ya here."  
  
She absently explored the ridges of his palm with her fingertips, lightly running them over the maze of criss-crossed scars that blemished his hand. (Does she know, he wondered, does she know what her touch still does to me?) All his other mortal injuries had healed, but these wounds, burns from the Scourge's instrument of death, had not. They remained, an ugly sea of red welts, a reminder (Still atoning? Does my penance ever stop?) that Doyle rather not have.  
  
Cordelia sighed deeply. "And they need Alan Francis Doyle back on Earth."  
  
Doyle shrugged off-handedly; a hint of humour in his gesture. "Life's a bitch."  
  
Cordelia pouted half-mockingly. "So's unlife."  
  
"It seems so, yea?" He planted a gentle kiss on brow. "Comes wit' the territory. We are soldiers an' all."  
  
Cordelia shot him an disbelieving glance. "And by soldiers you mean self- proclaimed bitches of the People Upstairs, right?"  
  
"Cor-" He started.  
  
"I know, I know," she breathed airily. "Fight the good fight, blah, blah ... can't a girl indulge in a little self-pity now and then?" Doyle granted her a wide smile. "What I mean is, bad timing much? You get incinerated by the Lightbulb of Doom before we even have one date, and then Skip herds me up here just before I tell Angel-"  
  
A knowing look, both sagely complacent and mournfully resigned, crossed Doyle's winsome features.  
  
Cordelia's brown eyes went wide. "Oops, Rambly Cord, not so attractive. Time for self-edit."  
  
Doyle swallowed, hard. There seemed to be this lump in his throat ... "You love him, dontcha?" He all but choked on the words. (Stop kiddin' yerself, bud. Like she'd wait fer you ... Mr.I-Was-Cremated-Alive.)  
  
She sighed tiredly. "I did ... a lot, but he's a soul-challenged vampire with an Apocalypse-bringing son and I'm a dead half-demon. Did I mention the dead part?"  
  
He pulled back slightly, hugged his knees to his chest in a childish display of self-defense. "Puts a damper on the relationship, yea?" He couldn't hide the miserable hurt behind his words.  
  
(Why are you doin' this, bud? Tryin' ta hurt her more?)  
  
Cordelia reached for him, but her half-demon companion recoiled. She yielded carefully; began to sketch doodles in the sand. "I'm sorry, Doyle ... so much happened after you died ..." Her words meekly trailed off into a suffocating quiet.  
  
Doyle shot a glimpse at his visibly wounded would-be lover. He exhaled heavily. "Ain't no reason fer you ta apologize, Princess," he murmured gently, pulling her back into his arms. "I'm the almighty idjit that should be sayin' sorry."  
  
She nuzzled her head under his jaw, the cool skin of her brow resting against his neck. Willowy arms entangled themselves around his abdomen. She didn't need to speak; she forgave him everything. Her presence said that much.  
  
Unbidden tears prickled at Doyle's eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair. (I'm sorry fer everything I've put ya through and everything else you're gonna hafta face. I'm sorry things turned out this way. I'm sorry I never got ta tell ya how much I love ya.)  
  
They sat in silence for a while, turquoise waves washing over their toes. "I do know how to pick 'em, huh?" Cordelia piped up self-mockingly. "I fall for a blood-guzzling dead guy on Earth and a spiky-faced dead guy in Heaven. Then I lose both."  
  
Doyle stretched lagoriously, reclined back on the sand. "Well, ya've still got this spiky-faced dead guy for a lit'le while longer ..."  
  
Cordelia favoured him with another of her fabulous, heart-breaking smiles. Then she leaned over, and grazing his rough cheek with her fingers, delivered a gentle kiss on his lips.  
  
"I'll take all the time I can."  
  
  
  
You waltzed right in the center and just sat You threw our lives upon our ears like that I can't believe you died  
  
Caught in the center, your hollow entertainer And I wonder, whatever do I see in you? Yeah, but I see it in you  
  
  
  
NOTE: Reviews are wonderful and I'll love forever all those who bless me with them! It also helps encourage my muse to come out and play! ;) 


	3. Chapter Three

DISCLAIMER: Hey kids, it's me again . thank you for those who have generously reviewed my work, but for the rest of you who haven't (shaking my fist in anger) . please do! Just a quick note, the song's 'Walk On By' by Cake, and the line of poetry is from 'When You Are Old' by Yeats. Cheers!  
  
  
  
Walk on by the house  
  
Where you still live  
  
Walk on by the place  
  
Where we would kiss  
  
And the room where  
  
I held you tight  
  
Tonight I must  
  
Walk on by  
  
Walk on by the room  
  
Where you still sleep  
  
Walk on by the company  
  
That you keep  
  
And the room where  
  
I held you tight  
  
Tonight I must  
  
Walk on by  
  
Somehow I know  
  
I won't forget you No, no, no, no, no  
  
I won't  
  
You won't forget me  
  
No, no, no, no, no  
  
You won't  
  
I'll keep on walking  
  
Away from here  
  
I'll forget you when  
  
I reach the other side  
  
Walk on by the house  
  
Where you still live  
  
Walk on by the place  
  
Where we would kiss  
  
And the room where  
  
I held you tight  
  
Tonight I must  
  
Walk on by  
  
*******  
  
Nightfall.  
  
Doyle stirred, rose hesitantly from the delicious warmth of Cordelia's arms, sliding out from under the bedcovers. Sighing a little, he slipped on his T-shirt and stood, gazing down at the sleeping girl with affection. Her lovely face had softened in slumber, cleansed of all worries and worldly concerns.  
  
(There's still tha sadness, Doyle thought gloomily. She misses home. An' now I'm leavin' 'er too.)  
  
Cordelia murmured a little in her sleep. Doyle's heart leapt into his throat; he waiting anxiously, frozen, to see if she would wake. (I won't be able ta leave . I won't be able ta go with those eyes pleadin' for me ta stay .)  
  
She fumbled with the blankets, heaved a dreamy sigh, then rolled back onto her side, clutching a pillow tightly. Doyle exhaled a breath of relief, running a nervous hand through wiry black hair. (Thank the Gods.)  
  
"Doyle."  
  
Alan Francis started abruptly, jumping nearly a mile high with fright. He spun quickly, then shot an vengeful look at the well-known figure invading his bedroom. "Sweet Jesus, ya practically gave me a heart attack!"  
  
Whistler stepped forth from the shadows. His fedora was still tilted at a jaunty angel, his shirt still blindingly ugly, his grin still smug and arrogant. "Dead men don't have heart attacks."  
  
The half-demon glared dangerously, straightening his shirt with an impetuous gesture. "Well, it ain't for a lack of tryin'," he retorted, rising from the bed.  
  
Whistler shook his head, a slight smile forming on his lips. He strode across the room, then paused next to his young charge. "I like you, Alan," he announced, rifling through his jacket. "Always have."  
  
"Thanks," the other mumbled darkly, crossing his arms in an obvious statement of irritation. "That means a lot comin' from the king of rampant alcoholism and bad polyester combinations."  
  
"Hey!" Whistler shot back, indignant, pausing the intensive search through his leather coat. "Pot-with-the-faint-scent-of-whiskey calling the kettle black?"  
  
Doyle settled on a livid glower.  
  
Suddenly, a noise of victory, and a small, silver flask was produced from Whistler's breast pocket. He motioned towards his half-demon companion. "Speaking of, you want any?"  
  
Doyle declined with a slight shake of his head. "Nah, not now," he murmured softly, again glancing at Cordelia's prone form. "But I sure as hell'll need it after."  
  
Whistler's jovial features turned compassionate. He placed a sympathetic, but firm hand on Doyle's shoulder. "We gotta get going. Things to do, souls to save. You know the bit."  
  
His charge sighed, face exquisite with pain. "I know," he muttered absently. "It's just ."  
  
"You'll see her again, Alan. It all works out in the end."  
  
(And we all live happily ever after . Doyle recited sardonically.)  
  
Outwardly, he simply sighed. A weighty sadness had crept into his figure; shoulders sagged, eyes downcast, mouth in an everlasting frown. It seemed as if grief had blanketed his entire soul and now merely existing was too much strain. "Sure, bud," the words barely escaped his lips. "Can you give me a minute?"  
  
Casting one last kind look at the younger demon, Whistler bowed diminutively in respect and melted back into the surrounding shadows. (It's not done, my boy. Not by a long shot.)  
  
Doyle rested once again on their bed, gently stroking Cordelia's blond locks. They'd had, what, two, maybe three months together here on this plain (by Earth standards, at least)? Fate's a funny li'l bastard, he considered lightly. We just miss our chance back in L.A, and now the People Upstairs decide that out of all their divine realms, one dead half-demon's gonna sway the destiny of the planet.  
  
(Didn't I already atone? I mean, I died. Didn't that kinda free me up in some respect?)  
  
Now, he was forced to leave again. Called to fight the good fight. (You owe me, he raged to whatever gods were listening. You owe me big time, and I intend on collectin'.)  
  
He took a moment to savour Cordelia's striking features, memorize every inch of that adored face, planting this instant in his mind indefinitely, forever. The smell of her hair, her sleepy form tucked quietly in a nest of blankets, her radiant presence. (I'll remember, I'll remember .)  
  
Leaning down, he tenderly grazed her lips with a kiss. (I love you, Princess. It don't matter where I am, dead or alive. I still love you.) Just then, a snippet of the past occurred to him; a snatch of some long- forgotten poetry from childhood . He pressed his mouth to her ear, and with warm, broken breath, recited those archaic words in the sweetest of tones.  
  
Then Doyle stood, glanced down at his Princess, blue eyes intensely sad. Whistler shifted uncomfortably behind him. "Alan?"  
  
Alan Francis Doyle, half-demon, Promised One and dead man, turned to his waiting mentor.  
  
"I'm ready."  
  
*******  
  
Cordelia woke.  
  
"Doyle?"  
  
The warm body next to her was missing. And she knew he was gone. For good.  
  
Tears, the first but by far not the last, trickled down her face. Words, spoken softly in her ear, by a voice touched with laughter, wit and a charming Irish brogue:  
  
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,  
  
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;  
  
And bending down beside the glowing bars,  
  
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled  
  
And paced upon the mountains overhead  
  
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.  
  
She wept.  
  
*******  
  
Dawn was breaking over Los Angeles.  
  
A lone figure strode the empty streets; a pale young man in who's face was etched more perception, more anguish, more absolute longing than his age suggested was even possible. A bitter knowledge, a cynical acceptance, emaciated from his sinewy form. He had lost everything, and knew there was still more to be taken before the end.  
  
Doyle paused, considered the California sky, streaked with the pinks and oranges of sunrise. He smiled, almost.  
  
"I'm home."  
  
******  
  
Tonight I must  
  
Walk on by.  
  
  
  
NOTE: I know I posted this chapter before, but I wasn't really happy with it, so I decided to do a little editing, and voila! Now that I had time to really flesh it out, I'm quite happy with it . one last thing . REVIEWS PLEASE! ( 


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